When the leaves fell, they fell like bombs.
Crashing to the ground noiselessly
But he could feel the impact of each delicate leaf hitting the soft autumn ground
And when he looked up at the trees, stretching their bare branches towards the sky,
He saw young Vietnamese children, reaching out to their mothers
Who lay lifeless
Slumped against the walls of empty buildings
Once called home.
And when he closed his eyes to sleep at night
He was haunted by comrades
Who had fallen beside him
And left behind widows and children and lives
all in the name of democracy.
They say the wounds of war can never really heal.
I know yours didn't.
We won the war
But you lost yours
Were you contemplating surrender when you held that familiar friend in your hands?
A gun had once defended your life, but now it prepared to take it
Did you think about wives and children and sorrow?
Or were you simply thinking of the dead, autumn leaves falling from the branches?
You, too, died in autumn,
But you fell in spring.
For Lewis B. Puller, Jr. who died of war-related injuries to his soul that never really healed.
May 15th, 1994 RIP.
Assignment for creative writing.